


Even More Doom & Despair (2018)

by okapi



Series: July Watson's Woes Prompts [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Banter, Domestic Fluff, Domestic misunderstandings, Egypt, F/F, Ficlet Collection, Fictional Detectives, Fireworks Stand AU, Genderswap Vampires, Insect AU, Karaoke, Lestrade's hobby, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Has Tentacles, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2018, vampires and werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-05 08:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 16,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15166733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Entries for the July Watson's Woes daily writing prompts. All chapters stand alone and ratings vary!





	1. The Ming Bowl (ACD. Gen. Warning: Minor Character Death)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Ming Bowl  
> Universe: ACD canon  
> Rating: G  
> Warning: Minor Character Death  
> Length: 663 (221b x 3)  
> Summary: Inspector Lestrade's hobby, through the years.  
> Author's Note: for the 2018 Watson's Woes prompt #2 ([picture prompt](https://methylviolet10b.dreamwidth.org/file/9741.jpg))

“Holmes! Do you know what happened to the remains of that Christmas goose?”

“Watson, as it’s been over a fortnight since that case concluded, my portion has been long since digested and, uh,” he gave a polite glance at Mrs. Hudson as she laid the tea tray down and turned towards the door, “the remains have left the premises.”

“No, I mean the bones. Inspector Lestrade has them. What?! You don’t look surprised at all!”

“How can I when it was I who delivered the skeleton into the inspector’s eager hands?”

“Do you know what he’s doing with it?”

“Adding to his inventory of potential exhibits, I’d suppose.”

“Holmes! How did you know?”

“For the simple reason that he told me, Watson. Inspector Lestrade is a good detective, but he longs to be a great museum curator. He collects bits of crime memorabilia and is assembling them into a rather impressive collection.”

“The Hans Sloane of the macabre?”

“Something like that, but he’s well-versed in art, pottery, and textiles, too. He spends all his leisure at the British Museum or the London Library at St. James’s Square. When he finds a suitable venue for his project, he’ll be set.”

“But what’ll he do with the goose?”

“Can you not envision the signage, Watson, ‘This way to the Bonniest of Blue-Egg-Laying Birds!’”

* * *

“Why are you in such a good mood today, Inspector?”

Lestrade hesitated, then said, “Stand me a pint and I’ll show you.”

When we were settled, he brought a paper-wrapped bundle from his coat pocket. He held it down between us, below the bar, and carefully picked the paper apart.

I stared at the bowl. The light was dim and the angle poor and my knowledge of Chinese pottery at least a couple of months old, but still, I sensed its value.

“A once-in-a-lifetime find, Watson. I was just rolling through the markets, as always on a Saturday afternoon, and I came upon it and I knew at once. I knew that it was worth more than all the rubbish around it combined, hell, worth more than the whole bloody Limehouse District, if it came to that. I bought a lot of things so as not to get the seller’s wind up, so don’t be surprised if you receive a wooden incense holder in the shape of a turtle for Christmas.”

“Is it eggshell? Of the Ming dynasty?”

“Ah, so you remember that business with Baron Gruner? Yes, Lomax and I have studied it and we both think so.”

I shook my head as he re-wrapped it and returned it to his pocket, finding nothing to say except,

“It’s a beauty.”

* * *

“Come, Watson, or we’ll miss the train.”

“Of course,” I said as I wrenched my gaze from the wooden turtle on the mantlepiece.

“He led a long, full life,” I said, then winced at the banality of the statement.

“Indeed. He had a long, noble career,” said Holmes. “And he had a hobby that enriched his life and others. How many can say that? And we know, by our visits and theirs, that he and Lomax were as happy in their retirement as we are in ours.”

I smiled, then nodded and reached for my suitcase.

“And he will live on,” added Holmes as we made our way to the dogcart.

“In our memory, you mean?”

He shook his head. “You didn’t realise it, my dear Watson, but that Ming bowl was just the beginning of his, shall we say, lucky finds, although I don’t believe that luck had much to do with it. I predict in about six months, we’ll be making another trip to witness the unveiling of the G. Lestrade collection at the British Museum.”

“Really?!”

“And Lomax informs me that some of the pieces will be sold to establish a programme of study for those interested in museum curation.”

“Oh, Holmes!”

Holmes passed me a handkerchief and said softly,

“Of a bad lot, the very, very best.” 


	2. A Simple Misunderstanding (ACD. Rating: Teen. Wordplay.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: A Simple Misunderstanding  
> Universe: ACD canon  
> Rating: Teen/PG  
> Length: 700  
> Summary: While Watson is trying to relax at the Turkish bath, Holmes bounds in with unfortunate news from Baker Street. Holmes & Mrs. Hudson have had a pair of simple misunderstandings.  
> Author's Note: For the July Writing Prompt #4: Contradict Yourself. Contronymns are words that are their own antonyms. Choose one from the list [here](https://www.dailywritingtips.com/75-contronyms-words-with-contradictory-meanings/) and use both its meanings in your work.

I was half-way to Xanadu when the door burst open and a bloody consulting detective from Porlock bounded in.

“Watson!”

I started and pushed up onto my elbows.

“Really, Holmes, this is too much! I was not obtuse this morning in my announcement that I was fleeing the chaos of Baker Street for the serenity of a Turkish bath, and here you are, barging in, shattering the quiet and being about as serene as a rabid camel!”

My masseur, a skilled and handsome young fellow named Abû Tabâh, addressed the intrusion with similar condemnation, but in in his own dialect. If the youth was surprised at that apology he received was in his own tongue, he did not show it; Holmes’s contrite expression betrayed the nature of the communication even if I did not comprehend the exchange.

It is a matter of conjecture just how many coins Holmes pressed into Abû Tabâh’s hand, but they were sufficient in number and value for my attendant to abandon me without hesitation or further protest. He shut the door gently behind him.

“What is the meaning of this, Holmes? I arranged for a relaxing, therapeutic—”

“And you shall have one,” he said, removing his suit jacket and unfastening his cuffs.

“What, you?!” I cried, adding a derisive snort. “Don’t tell me you’ve written a short monograph on the subject—”

“Place yourself in my hands, Watson,” he insisted and gently pushed my shoulders down to the masseur’s slab. “And listen.”

“What happened, Holmes? I thought you were supposed to be making amends to Mrs. Hudson for setting the curtains on fire.”

I heard the wet slap of oil being applied liberally to hands, then felt warm, curious fingertips surveying the plane of my bare back.

“I put myself wholly at our landlady’s disposal. But a misunderstanding transpired. We were in the kitchen. She asked me to trim the vegetables.”

“Yes?” I prompted. Holmes’s hands were moving in earnest now, and I have to say he had a magnificent touch, applying deep, firm strokes that began unknotting my tension at once.

“Well, I thought it’d be easy. After all, you remember the Christmas fir. I did splendidly with that.”

“Oh, dear,” I groaned as Holmes’s hands found a tender spot at my lower back.

“You know, Watson, the next lucrative case we solve, we should invest in a better mattress for your room. I’m convinced poor sleep posture is at the root of this.”

I could only moan, but when he moved on to my shoulders, I had the wherewithal to ask about the trimmed vegetables.

“They were exquisitely decorated, Watson, every carrot, marrow, and onion. I even gave the tomato a moustache.”

“Oh, dear,” I sighed. “I don’t suppose she was pleased. Oh, Holmes, right there?”

“Here?”

“Oh, God, yes. What happened then?”

“Well, after a harsh rebuke, she said the least I could do was dust the upstairs sitting room. So I did. Forthwith, as the Bible says.”

“And?” It was a pant. Holmes’s hands had returned to my lower back, and it occurred to me that it was a pity if he hadn’t written a monograph on the subject.

“I did a first-rate job. I sprinkled dust on every single nook and cranny. And it was a sacrifice, for I’d been saving that dust for a very important experiment. There was a even, thick layer over the entire room.”

“Oh, God,” I moaned, and not the good kind.

“Yes,” said Holmes.

Suddenly, the room was pervaded with a sharp Oriental scent, which, given to its strong association in my mind with certain acts, provoked an immediate, physiological reaction in the Watson corpus.

“Uh, Holmes, Abû Tabâh usually reserves that oil for the, uh, very end of the treatment.”

A murmured ‘indeed’ was his only reply.

“Listen, Holmes,” I said, rolling to one side and pushing up on one hand. “What happened when Mrs. Hudson came upstairs and discovered what you’d done?”

His expression was almost comically sheepish. “I am banished,” he said and sniffed the small dark bottle.

I huffed. “So what’ll we do?”

His lips curled in a mischievous smile. “Bolt?”

I raised an eyebrow. “The door or for Paris?”

“Both.”


	3. Green (ACD. Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Green  
> Rating: Gen  
> Universe: ACD canon  
> Length: 150  
> Summary: Holmes and Watson are watching fireworks, post-case.  
> Author's Note: For the July Writing Prompt #5: A Deadly Simple. It's poison.

BOOM!

“Oh, Holmes, isn’t it lovely?”

“Indeed. A most impressive fireworks spectacle.”

BOOM!

“Do you notice, Watson—?”

“Yes, the blue is fabulous. I haven’t forgotten my chemistry lesson: blue is the most difficult colour to produce in fireworks. I’ll send our thanks to your client tomorrow. This view the best in London.”

BOOM!

“It’s fine recompense for saving an engineer, _the_ engineer when it comes to pyrotechnical displays this side of Yangtze, from the gallows.”

BOOM!

“Oh, look at the colours, Holmes, red, white, blue, yellow, Holmes! Aren’t they just magnificent?”

“Red, white, blue, yellow…”

“You know, Holmes, I am wondering why there isn’t any—”

“Thallium, Watson! Essential in the production of green fireworks—and a deadly poison! Oh, how blind I’ve been! Quick, there may still be time!”

“Oh, Holmes, we’re going to miss the rest of the show!”

“I’ll craft one for you, Watson, later. Your very own—”

BOOM!


	4. Clueing for Looks (BBC Sherlock. pre-Johnlock. Rating: Teen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Clueing for Looks  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock (circa Season 1 or 2)  
> Rating: Teen/PG  
> Length: 700  
> Content Notes: pre-Johnlock, flatmates-to-lovers, snarky post-case banter  
> Summary: “Sherlock, do you have any idea why half of Scotland Yard and your brother were giving me funny looks at the crime scene?”  
> Author's Note: For Vulgarweed. For JWP Prompt #6: Double Take. Watson keeps getting odd looks from people and can't figure out why. Tell or show us why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, [Vulgarweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed)!

“Sherlock, do you have any idea why half of Scotland Yard _and_ your brother were giving me funny looks at the crime scene?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his mobile. “It wasn’t your hair—this time.”

“What?! What do you mean?”

“I mean that the new product is giving much better results than the old one, John.”

“Oh, well, good to know. Listen, Sherlock, I saw their faces when I arrived, and there’s no smoke without fire—”

“Of course, there is, John. Or don’t you remember the results of last week’s experiment? There was absolutely no fire involved.”

“And yet the fire brigade showed up anyway,” murmured John with a weary huff.

“Yes, no precision in labels these days—although I suppose ‘copious-smoke-and-fire brigade’ doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”

“Back to the crime scene, Sherlock.”

“No. We’re going home, John. I solved the case! As usual.”

“Christ, I’m going to murder you—”

“You can try.”

“Why were they looking at me like that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock tilted his head and pinched his lips and said nothing.

The taxi stopped at Baker Street.

Sherlock leapt out. John paid and followed in Sherlock’s wake.

“Sherlock?!” cried John as they made their way upstairs.

Sherlock sighed and removed his coat.

“Well, it _might_ have to do with the fact that Detective Inspector Lestrade doubted the veracity of the statement made by the victim’s lover that the victim had ejaculated twice in a period of twenty-five minutes because of the victim’s age. I pointed out that you are the exact same age as the victim and have an average refractory period of eleven minutes, with a personal best of six, so you see there wasn’t time for the victim’s lover to have—”

“Oh, God, Sherlock,” groaned John and covered his face with his hand. “You discussed my refractory period at a crime scene. Of course, you did.”

“I doubt anyone was genuinely surprised. I mean, there is your gait.”

John’s hand dropped. He stared at Sherlock, then blinked, his mouth silently opening and closing. Then he began to pace and mutter to himself, “Christ, where to start, where to start?”

John stopped and turned abruptly to face Sherlock, who was now folded into his armchair.

“They all think we’re lovers now, Sherlock!”

“They all thought we were lovers _before_ , John!”

John resumed his impersonation of an exasperated fish. When speech returned, he said,

“Your brother, too, Sherlock? But he wasn’t even at the crime scene until we were about to leave!”

“No, Mycroft knows we’re not lovers.”

“But he gave me a look, too.”

“That’s his face.”

John shook his head firmly. “No, it’s not.”

“Perhaps,” conceded Sherlock. “But if he did, in fact, ‘give you a look,’ it was a by-product.”

“What?!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mycroft was looking at you because he had observed Detective Inspector Lestrade looking at you with a certain _appreciation_.”

John’s jaw dropped.

“You mean your brother—?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Yes, but the less said, the better.”

“All right, last question: how do you know my refractory period? I mean, I haven’t had sex since—”

Sherlock snorted. “You know my methods, John. I look for patterns, detect anomalies, and try to explain them. There’s the length of your shower, for one. The rhythm of floorboard squeaks made by your bedframe when you’re sleeping versus _other_ activities, for another. You’re quite regular in your habits, masturbatory included. You don’t often indulge in a double session, but they do occur, and any outlier is worth close study. Why are you upset? In most cultures, a shorter refractory period is associated with youth, virility—”

“Yeah, yeah. Jesus Christ!” John exclaimed, then sighed. “I suppose it could be worse.” He rubbed his face with his hand. “Six minutes, huh? I wonder when—”

“I have a hypothesis about that,” interrupted Sherlock.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Black leather trousers?”

John’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he exhaled. “Uh, yes, you came home from that—“

“Club,” finished Sherlock. 

“Yes, well, as I recall, the, uh, entire outfit was very flattering.”

“Thank you.”

Their eyes met.

Then John smiled, and asked, “So what’s this about my gait?”

“I have my hypotheses.” 

“Care to do more than speculate?" 

“Always, John.”


	5. Liquorice (BBC Sherlock femlock vampire AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author: stonepicnicking_okapi  
> Title: Liquorice  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock AU  
> Rating: Mature  
> Length: 1800  
> Warnings/Content Notes: Genderbent (fem!Sherlock, fem!John, fem!Mycroft); Vampire!Sherlock, Vampire!Mycroft, thrall!Anthea, and John is just an ordinary human; Sherlock is a menstrual-blood drinking vampire (I know, I know, but, yes!); consensual blood drinking; un-thralling a thrall; part of my [The Cup Runneth Over](https://archiveofourown.org/series/493618) ‘verse. For anyone interested, Anthea’s wearing Agent Provacateur’s Kaylie set.  
> Summary: The Holmes feeding don’t go as planned.  
> Author’s Note: For 2018 July Watson Woes Writing Prompt #8. I used all eight of the descriptive phrases! [The phrases were: Broken blade; Police station; Rheumatoid arthritis; Secret society; Vox populi, vox dei; Danger zone; Performance issues; Rapid fire]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not certain this will ever become a feature-length fic, so I'm going to leave it here for now.

It was already dark when John climbed the seventeen steps to the sitting room. She moved slowly, placing each foot carefully on the centre of a stair and hauling herself upwards by tugging on the rail.

She was bracing herself for the onslaught, and much as anticipated, her arrival was met with a rapid-fire barrage of questions.

“Where have you been? Have you a case? Crime? Puzzle? Enigma? Locked room mystery? Unlocked room mystery?”

“Hello, Sherlock. How’d you sleep?” said John wearily.

“Who cares how I slept? I’m bored! Bored, John! What have you been doing? Run into Lestrade?” Sherlock sniffed. “No, not the police station. You’ve been at the surgery all day. You smell of…old people.” She grimaced.

“You’d think we were running a special on rheumatoid arthritis today,” said John. “Nothing new on the web site?”

Sherlock shook her head.

“Your sister?” suggested John.

Sherlock huffed scornfully.

“It’s worth asking,” said John.

“I did ask!” cried Sherlock. “You’d think if I asked nicely, which I did, that Mycroft would be able to whip me up a serial killer or a murderous secret society, but no. She’s otherwise occupied.” Sherlock rolled her eyes.

“With what?” asked John.

“Un-thralling a thrall.”

John stared, then blinked. “Can that be done?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know. No vampire’s ever wanted to.”

Then, suddenly, she jumped up and stood, in pyjamas, dressing gown, and bare feet, on the seat of her armchair. She spread her arms wide and announced,

“It’s _vox populi, vox dei_ , John. The people have spoken. They’ve taken the collective decision not to commit any interesting crimes, and thus, have condemned me to death by ennui.”

John stared at Sherlock, then sighed, a bit heavier. “A second death, of course,” she said and glanced at the calendar that hung on the wall, “You know, Sherlock, you always get a bit edgy before feeding day, but this drought of work is making the condition particularly intolerable. You need a distraction. Have you tried playing your violin? Or doing one of your blood experiments? Or reading something interesting?”

“I’m too…”

Sherlock leapt to the floor, waving her hands. Then she began to pace, and as she paced, she transformed from dark-haired-head-flicking human to dark-furred-tail-flicking cat and back to human.

John paused to watch the shape-shifting spectacle.

Then Sherlock halted abruptly and turned to John and asked in plain, matter-of-face voice, “Would you like to have some sex, John?”

John sighed, once again, and replied dryly, “How ever shall I resist your charm, my silver-tongued night-walker…?”

Sherlock flew across the room and swept John up in her arms. Her voice fell to a theatrical rumble and she flicked her hair one last time before purring,

“Would you like to have some _exquisite_ vampire sex, John?”

John smiled. “Given that in about twenty-four hours, I’ll be having _exquisite_ vampire sex for three days straight, I’m going to say ‘no.’ But I will take a ‘welcome home’ kiss.”

Their lips met.

Sherlock drew back. “What have you been eating?”

“Liquorice,” said John. “Would you believe that one of the old dears today paid me in sweets? I’m not a fan, but I ate one, you know, not to be rude, and they are the best I’ve ever had. I’ve been eating them all afternoon. Would you like to try one?”

John produced a bag heavy with sweets, each wrapped in dark purple foil.

“No,” said Sherlock, scowling. She released John and turned away.

“Really? But isn’t liquorice much like aniseed? And I thought vampires loved absinthe.”

“Myth. Much like the aversion to garlic. We like blood, John, human blood. Everything else is static.”

John looked at the calendar again.

“You know, Sherlock, maybe it was the busy day at the surgery, but I don’t _feel_ like it’s the day before feeding day.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and sauntered slowly back to John. She approached, sniffing, then licking the side of John’s neck.

“Curious. You don’t smell like it, either.”

“Maybe the schedule’s a day off. I mean, so far, there’s not been any, uh, performance issues.”

Sherlock’s arms twined ‘round John’s waist. “I know you’re not a machine, John,” she said softly and nuzzled the side of John’s neck. “Or livestock, if it comes to that.”

“You could always bite me.”

“I could, but a day or two’s delay hardly puts me in the danger zone for starvation, John.”

“In a day or two, you’ll be shooting the walls.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Doubtful. You’re here now.”

\---

“Throw yourself on the fire.”

_No. Yes._

Her head ached.

“I order you to throw yourself on the fire.”

The flames danced.

She moved closer, closer, then leant forward ‘til the heat kissed her cheek—

Strong arms gripped her just before she tipped into the blaze.

The sour scent of disappointment filled her nostrils, and her heart broke.

_She’d got it wrong._

“It’s all right, my dear. It’s all right.” Lips brushed her temples. Mistress’ voice was warm. “I didn’t think that spell would work, but I had to be certain before we move on to more promising ones.”

She inhaled deeply, and the ribbon-like aroma of raw need made her tilt her head in invitation. “You’re hungry.”

“I’m fine,” said Mistress, curtly. “Rest, and we’ll try again.”

\---

“Throw yourself on the sword.”

“No.”

“I order you to throw yourself on the sword.”

She did not look at, at, at…

… _Mycroft_ , the word sounded so foreign, even in her thoughts.

She looked at the point of the blade and cried,

“NO!”

Then she sprang.

\---

Then the broken blade lay on the floor between them.

Oh, no!

It was Mistress’ favourite sword, the one hidden in her umbrella, and she’d snapped it in half like a twig, and there was Mistress, _Mycroft_ , staring at her, eyes wide, mouth open.

And there was no scent, no scent at all. She had to read the tiny smile that curved the thin lips, the light that lit the dark, almost obsidian eyes, the clasp of the thin-fingered hands, and the exclamation.

“Oh, my dear. Well done! You’ve done it. You’re free.” Mycroft looked toward the window. “Damn, I wish we had more time. First, pick a name. Come.”

She was led by the hand to the library.

“Any name you’d like. Then go out. Explore. Do anything, everything.” A piece of plastic was being pressed into her palm. “Buy clothes, lunch, a new life. Your quarters will be waiting, there’s a separate entrance and code, but if you choose not to return…”

“Why?” she asked because she could.

Mycroft sighed. “Because my sister has evolved a set of bloody ethics, and it’s catching.” She drew a hand through her own short, dark hair. The hand shook.

“You’re hungry,” said Anthea.

“I’m fine. Go. But know I’m ever at your service.”

She watched Mycroft disappear through the wall and thought, ‘She only forgets about doors when she’s exhausted—and starving.’  

\---

She gave the stack of books one last, long look, then wrote slowly, forming each letter with care.

**_My name is Anthea._ **

Then she slipped the scrap of paper beneath the bedroom door.

\---

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Anthea started. She hadn’t noticed the old lady sitting beside her.

“Yes,” she said.

“Would you like one?”

Anthea took the sweet and unwrapped it.

“It’s very good. Thank you,” she said.

But when she turned her head, the old lady was gone.

\---

“Uh, hello.”

Anthea looked up.

“We’ve met before,” said the woman. “You, uh, work for Mycroft Holmes.”

Anthea nodded. “I did.”

“You don’t anymore?”

Anthea shook her head. “No.”

“Really? As of…?”

“This morning.”

“I don’t know if you remember me. I’m, well, that is, Mycroft’s sister, Sherlock, is my, uh, partner. Do you like those sweets?”

Anthea frowned, then followed the pointing finger to the bag of sweets on the bench beside her.

“Yes,” she said, puzzled.

“Me, too. I just had them for the first time yesterday. They’re great.”

“Would you like to…?” Anthea motioned to the bench beside her.

“Thanks.”

\---

“Not a third night with us? What a pity,” said the hotel clerk.

“No,” said Anthea. “I’m going home.”

\---

The closet door opened.

She heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Anthea?”

Anthea struck a match and lit the candle on the bedside table.

“My dear.”

“You’re hungry, Mycroft.”

“I told you that you needn’t worry yourself anymore about that…”

Anthea rolled onto her back and watched, upside-down, as Mycroft approached the bed, tying the sash of her dressing gown. There was a streak of coffin ash still in her hair; she brushed at it nervously and said,

“You’ve bought new clothes.”

“Yes,” said Anthea, grinning cheekily.

“Lovely, though spare. The lilac and yellow are quite flattering, my dear.”

Anthea flipped over and rose up onto her knees. She neared Mycroft, gathering her hair up in one hand at the top of her head.

“Feed.”

“You’re free. You needn’t ever be subject to…”

“You’re hungry,” said Anthea. She turned her neck to Mycroft and cupped her breast. “Please,” she whispered.

She heard a curse in a language she did not know. Then she let her eyes flutter closed as the sharp incisors lengthened.

\---

“I feel rotten, Sherlock.”

“You smell deliciously overripe, John.”

“Mother Nature’s taking her bruising revenge. I’m three days past my expiry date.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m one hundred twenty-seven years past mine.”

John snorted. “No time for a bath, just a quick shower, and make me feel better?”

“So much better, John. My appetite is quite whet, and I’m ready to provide ecstasy as long as you’ve—”

“Brushed my teeth, yes, and I finished off the last of the sweets yesterday.”

\---

John lifted her hips. She felt the curl of Sherlock’s tongue and caress of her lips.

“Oh, God, yes,” she breathed.

Sherlock hummed and slid her hands under John’s buttocks, gripping them, pulling John’s cunt closer to her feasting—

“Sherlock?”

John awkwardly rolled away, then slid beside Sherlock, who was horribly still, face-down in the pillows.

“Sherlock? Are you okay? Sherlock! If this is a joke, it’s really not funny!”

John gripped Sherlock’s shoulders and turned her.

Her skin was grey, her lips a blueish-purple.

“Oh, God, what do I do, what do I do? Mycroft! Where’s Sherlock’s mobile?”

John found it and tapped frantically.

“Damn it, Mycroft! Pick up the bloody phone!” she screamed and hurled the phone against the wall. “I’ve got to go there.”

In a few minutes, John was dressed and carrying Sherlock’s body down the stairs, but when she reached the front door, it flew open.

And there was Anthea, her expression a mirror of John’s own terror, with Mycroft’s limp body in her arms.

 

 

 


	6. Eight Friends (221b. Tentacle!lock fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author: stonepicnicking_okapi  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock AU  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 221B  
> Warnings/Content Notes: Poetry + prose (English sonnet); Tentacle!lock fluff; set in my [Tentacle!lock ‘verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/847866)  
> Summary: John writes a sonnet about Sherlock’s tentacles.  
> Author’s Note: For 2018 July Writing Prompt #9. The Color Purple.

> **_I’ve eight curious friends who appear quite oft_ **
> 
> **_when there are novel tricks to puzzle out._ **
> 
> **_At once, they’re slipp’ry, suprahensile, soft,_ **
> 
> **_and though faceless, brim with expression, clout._ **
> 
> ****
> 
> **_I’ve eight clever friends who emerge with stealth_ **
> 
> **_when there are frays most knotty, knots unfrayed._ **
> 
> **_They are a most uncommon commonwealth_ **
> 
> **_of curling ribbon, strong cord, stalwart braid._ **
> 
> ****
> 
> **_I’ve eight handsome friends who come into sight_ **
> 
> **_when there are lusts to prick, romance to preen._ **
> 
> **_By rosy dawn, mid-day sun, inky night_ **
> 
> **_they unfurl colours: grey, brown…_ **

 

John scratched his head and looked out the window. There was a tap on his shoulder and the dictionary flipped open on the desk.

“Ah,” said John. “Yes, thank you.” He smiled at the ruffle of his hair.

“Writing them poetry will only make them incorrigible, John.”

Despite the jibe, Sherlock leant slightly forward in his armchair with the precise purpose of providing easier egress through the slits in the back of his dressing gown.

“They’re already incorrigible, Sherlock, but I like them—and you—that way.”

John hunched over his notebook as Sherlock’s lips curled.

 

> **_…aubergine._ **
> 
> ****
> 
> **_No matter their means, no matter their ends_ **
> 
> **_I adore life with my eight charming friends._ **

 

“Not exactly Shakespeare,” said John.

“No,” said Sherlock, as all eight tentacles uncoiled, reaching for John. “But you’re _someone’s_ favourite bard.”


	7. Reputation (ACD. Rating: Explicit. UST.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Reputation  
> Universe: ACD  
> Length: 1800  
> Rating: Explicit/NC-17  
> Content Notes/Warning: Shifting POV; Holmes/Watson; Watson/others; Fantasy sex; some internalized homophobia and Victorian men being very stiff upper lip. Sad ending with unresolved sexual tension.  
> Summary:
> 
> “Mister Holmes, I fear that the events of tonight have painted a certain picture of me….”
> 
> He hummed, then spoke as if reciting from a museum placard, “’ _Portrait of a foul-tongued, intemperate man of luridly unspeakable indulgences_ ’?”
> 
> Author’s Note: For the 2018 July Writing Prompts #12: Your Reputation Precedes You. The disadvantage in having a reputation is that people know who you are. Let that work to a character’s disadvantage in today’s entry.

I listened to the hooves of our hansom’s sure-footed mare on damp streets, then cleared my throat and began in a low voice,

“Mister Holmes, I feel that I own you an explanation…”

“For the observant man, Doctor Watson, some explanations are unnecessary, indeed, redundant. You were, at some time in the past, a patron of that establishment.”

“Yes, yes,” I mumbled. “I’m fond of Turkish baths, and that one is good, not as well-known or well-appointed as others, but a bit more within the reach of someone relying on an army pension.”

My companion nodded. “Though he was discrete enough not to say anything, I noted a light of recognition in the eyes of the clerk at the front desk when we arrived—a light, I might add, that was not directed at me. But so much the better, for perhaps it was the reassurances of a trusted patron that prompted him to be freer with his information than he might have been. The masseur we interviewed did not know you, but his young colleague, who hovered in the background…”

My whole face warmed, and I was grateful for the shadow of the cab’s interior.

“…most certainly _did_. And I’d have to be a very poor sleuth, indeed, not to notice that you and he lingered to speak to one another after the interview concluded.”

“Yes, well…”

“And you were able to easily navigate the labyrinthine corridors and rejoin me in the private—the _very_ private—chamber which I, quite correctly, believed to hold an important clue to the investigation. You also provided me with a timely piece of information about the room’s arrangement. Without it, I would have wasted valuable time and, perhaps, even be left with an unresolved case.”

“I’m exceedingly glad to be of assistance. Uh, Mister Holmes?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“We’re not returning to Baker Street.”

“No. Our next appointment is at place called the Queen of Spades.”

I gulped.

* * *

When we were once more in a hansom cab, barreling through the London night, I coughed.

“Uh, Mister Holmes…”

“Soldiers gamble, _Captain_ Watson. The hospitality afforded us by the proprietor was not altogether wretched—though whiskey has never been my drink of choice—and that is a mark in your favour. It isn’t often that one’s former _credito_ r greets one with such alacrity.”

“I’ve lost my shirt there. Thrice,” I admitted.

“And yet your current wardrobe, if I’m not mistaken, is without deficit.”

“Yes, I’ve learned to kerb my—”

But I was not destined to finish my statement, for at that moment, a pair of blackguards assailed our cab.

* * *

It was well past midnight when the skirmish concluded and what was left of the two ruffians was ushered into police custody. By mute agreement, Holmes and I gently refused the offer of the driver to ferry us to Baker Street.

We walked the short distance to our lodging.

“Well, I think we taught those boys a lesson, Mister Holmes.”

“At the minimum, a vocabulary lesson.”

I winced.

“I’m sorry, Mister Holmes. I have a tendency toward barracks talk when angered.”

“I confess it was edifying for me, too, though I’m certain as a doctor you are aware that some of your statements were anatomically improbable, if not impossible.”

I tipped my hat a bit further down over my brow, and we finished the journey in silence.

When we finally reached our shared sitting room, I stopped and gave voice to the thought that’d been tormenting me.

“Mister Holmes, I fear that the events of tonight have painted a certain picture of me….”

He hummed, then spoke as if reciting from a museum placard, “ _’Portrait of a foul-tongued, intemperate man of luridly unspeakable indulgences_ ’?”

Still in my coat and hat, my skin was feverish.

“Christ,” I breathed and dropped my head, more like a gallows-bound penitent than chastened schoolboy.

“There has been no subterfuge, Doctor. When we first met, you freely admitted to ‘another set of vices when I’m well.’ I shall state plainly, though you have, no doubt, already observed, that I am a man of cold, precise reason. Softer passions are abhorrent to my nature; those include the ones associated with tea time gossip and its accompanying narrow judgements, which are of interest to me only as they may relate to a case.”

My blood began to cool as he continued.

“How and with whom you enjoy your leisure is your own affair, Doctor. Your finances concern me only to the extent that you are unable to meet our shared obligation of rent. Even your language was not inappropriate in the circumstance. Your patronage of the Turkish bath and the gambling house furthered the case nicely, and your fists may have very well saved me the appearance of some very uncomfortable bruises in the morning. What is reputation, what is vice, even, to a man of science like myself?”

“I’m relieved to hear you say so. Good night, Mister Holmes.”

“Good night, Doctor.”

* * *

_I am a man of cold, precise reason._

_Softer passions are abhorrent to my nature._

_What is reputation, what is vice, even, to a man of science like myself?_

It was enough that he didn’t judge. Or, worse, denounce! A soldier may swear, a soldier may gamble, but he knew damn well what kind of ‘luridly unspeakable indulgence’ occurs at that bath.

Just being there, in that chamber, even with it unoccupied and bare, brought back memories.

Of bodies writhing. Of skin-on-skin. Of the grunts and groans of the taking and the took. Of being slotted between a pair of grown men and their throbbing pricks. Of hips rolling together, of pricks thrusting and spending together, of a nice, fat shaft in my hand and a set of sharp teeth digging into my shoulder. Of the royal perfume of sweat-soaked, wicked, wonderful sex…

I slicked my palm and dipped my hand beneath my nightshirt.

Holmes— _Mister_ Holmes—had been magnificent. The only jab the ruffian had landed was when I’d been distracted by his elegant expertise with the single stick. And when we’d sent the young fools packing, I’d wanted nothing more than to take my fellow lodger back to that bath, pay handsomely for a private room, and suck and sod him senseless. First, a quick rough frig, just to take the edge off, then a slow, languid coupling, laid out on a Silk Road of cushions, then an exploration of that long, lean body of his. Where was he most sensitive? Where could I put my mouth, my lips, my tongue, my teeth and make him moan?

Or perhaps he’d like to take control, and, dear God, I’d let him. The Queen of Spades. My luck was always ghastly there. What if he won me for the night? Bound and at his bidding ‘til dawn. His sweet plaything…

I bit my lip and came to crisis, then hastily cleaned myself.

My final thought before sleep over took me was:

_it was enough that he didn’t judge…_

* * *

 

_I am a man of cold, precise reason._

_Softer passions are abhorrent to my nature._

_What is reputation, what is vice, even, to a man of science like myself?_

He had no idea how aroused I was tonight, how it took every ounce of my cold, precise reason, my abhorrent nature, my scientific will, to keep my trousers from tenting at every turn.

So long had it been since I’d indulged in pleasure of any kind that finding the unguent was not simple search, but once found, I threw my nude form upon my wee bed and took my prick in hand.

I was only a spectator in my first fantasy. Surely an establishment that allows orgies would also permit a bit of unobserved voyeurism. Any discomfort I might feel at witnessing my fellow lodger being pleasured by and pleasuring others would be far outstripped by the knowledge acquired.

I would know precisely what John—no, I must never, never, _never_ allow myself to call him that, even in fantasy, for it might slip out—so that I would know precisely what Watson likes.

I would know so that when he and I are spent and tangled, he will take me in his arms and, his moustache tickling my damp temple, and whisper in a ragged, awestruck baritone,

“Christ, you’re a one-man orgy! Who’d ever want a Turkish bath with a homemade article like you?”

I’d smile and lick his nipple and say with utterly false nonchalance, “Who, indeed?”

Softer passions? There was nothing soft about either of us.

The Queen of Spades. Catching his eye across the table. Twice. Then leaving with my winnings only to be hurled into a side street.

“You may have fooled them, but you don’t fool me. You cheated, you flea-bitten cur in a dandy daddy’s suit.”

“Take the money.”

“Keep it, you cock-sucking whore. I’d rather have a pretty pound of your filthy flesh.”

To be taken and cursed and cursed and taken as a curtain of yellow fog hid our depravity and a woolen glove clenched between my teeth muffled my screams.

Then home and a hot bath with a doctor’s attention, a soldier’s chivalry, and a gentleman’s obsequiousness.

“Holmes. Holmes? Holmes!”

I’d grunt.

“Are you certain that you’re all right? I mean, you did take a fleet’s worth of scuttling, my good man.”

I’d hum.

And then the tenderness would pour forth.

The petting and caressing and murmurs.

And the kissing.

Oh, god, the kissing! That mouth was made for kissing and kissing well.

Every time I’d turn my head, he’d be there, waiting.

Of tobacco and tea and whiskey and toothpowder and my sweat, my stench, my skin, my mouth, my skin, my prick, my balls, my arse…

He’d taste of everything he is and every way he’s had me.

I fell asleep in warm reverie and woke some hours later in icy confusion with my hand, in the manner of a fig leaf, covering my flaccid prick.

* * *

_I am a man of cold, precise reason._

_Softer passions are abhorrent to my nature._

I stared into the glass. I drew the razor through the lather. I repeated the words, over and over, until the face that looks back was, once more, a mask.

* * *

_It was enough that he didn’t judge…_

I wiped my face with a towel, then stared into the glass. I took up the pair of tiny scissors, opening and closing them with utmost care. Mrs. Hudson fancied the moustache, but she would be cross if the trimmings scattered.

_It was enough that he didn’t judge…but I wouldn’t give him another opportunity to be noble. It was time to be sensible. Get married. Settle down. Grow a practice. Let the foul-tongued, intemperate man of luridly unspeakable indulgences remain a museum piece._


	8. Dinosaurs (ACD & BBC. Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Dinosaurs  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 400  
> Universes: ACD & BBC Sherlock (200 words of each. Compare/contrast)  
> Summary: John/Watson: "I'm a dinosaur!"  
> Author's Note: for 2018 JWP #14. Dinosaurs!

“Watson?”  
  
The trace impatience with which Holmes spoke told me it was not the first time he’d said my name.  
  
“I’m sorry. Did you find what you were looking for?”  
  
“Yes. This foray to the museum was not futile after all. I found my colleague, and he was helpful. And here I find my Boswell precisely where I left him.”  
  
“These bones. I’ve been staring at them, fixed to this spot, but in my mind, I’ve been stomping and roaring and flying!”  
  
“You’ve a handsome imagination, Watson.”  
  
“How can anyone stand here and not be inspired? How wonderful it is to be living in a modern age! So much is being discovered and understood and shared! Maps are being filled in. The past is being, quite literally, unearthed. It makes one so optimistic, so hopeful about the future.”  
  
“Indeed.” He checked his watch. “Might I tempt you away from your prehistoric reverie?”  
  
“You may tempt me away from the exhibit, but I cannot promise that when the concert begins that I won’t be closing my eyes and soaring once more, this time to musical accompaniment.”  
  
“Fair enough.”  
  
“I am a dinosaur!” I roared as Holmes led me toward the exit.

* * *

“I’m a dinosaur,” I sighed as I crumpled into my armchair.  
  
I looked up and studied Sherlock’s profile as he studied his mobile screen; then my gaze fell to the threadbare rug.  
  
Finally, Sherlock spoke, “Another row with a chip-and-pin machine?”  
  
“No. Well, yes, but that isn’t why, I mean, I had a string of young patients at the surgery. Meningitis outbreak. And they’re all so native to technology. They manipulate everything swiftly, effortlessly. Nothing confuses them. Nothing stumps them. I appreciate mobiles and the internet and all of it, but I can’t help feeling I’m being left behind and very soon I’ll be extinct.”  
  
“Or a meteorite will hit you.”  
  
“Or a meteorite will hit me.”  
  
Our eyes met.  
  
“You look done in, John.”  
  
“It’s been a long day.”  
  
“Kip on the sofa? I mean, pretend to read a book?” Sherlock pronounced this last word with extra crispness.  
  
“Yeah, why not?”  
  
Minutes later, I was stretched out along the sofa.  
  
I closed my eyes and heard the long, rich note of Sherlock’s violin, then he launched into a soft bittersweet melody.  
  
“That’s quite nice. What is it?” I asked in gruff voice, without opening my eyes.  
  
“Music for dinosaurs.”


	9. Vacation (All I've Ever Wanted) BBC Femlock. Gen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Vacation (All I've Ever Wanted)  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Length: 900  
> Rating: Gen  
> Content Notes: Genderbent (fem!Sherlock, fem!John, fem!Lestrade, fem!Mycroft); plot is lifted from Agatha Christie's Murder is Easy  
> Summary: John's ordered a rest cure. It starts off in predictable fashion.  
> Author's Note: for July Writing Prompts 2018 #15: take a break.

“A rest cure?!” exclaimed Sherlock with a sneer. “What, with a side of blood-letting leeches?”  
  
“Apparently, it’s all just stress. It is a rather old-fashioned recommendation, I’ll admit, but…”  
  
John shrugged. Sherlock fumed.  
  
“So, this charlatan proposes that we just go toddling off to Bath to take the waters— _Oh_.”  
  
“Sherlock…”  
  
“I see. Enjoy.”

* * *

“So, I’m off. See you in two weeks.”  
  
“Take these files back to Lestrade.”  
  
“Sherlock!”  
  
“It’s on your way.”  
  
“No, it’s not—oh, well, okay. Bye.”

* * *

“Hey! Hey, watch out!” cried John.  
  
“Oh, my goodness!” The old lady clutched her bag to her heaving chest.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“Yes, yes, I think so. Thank you so much!”  
  
“People are so reckless these days. And that car came out of bloody nowhere. You might’ve been killed. I should’ve gotten the plates, but maybe there’s a video of it. Do you want to sit down?”  
  
“No, I need to press on.”  
  
“Where are you headed?”  
  
“Scotland Yard.”  
  
“You’re in luck,” said John. “I’m headed there, too.”

* * *

“What’s this?” asked John.  
  
“For your holiday,” said Lestrade.  
  
“Ah, a beginner’s watercolours kit. Thank you! With this, I’m all set. Molly furnished me with a handsome sketch pad and pencils. Mrs. Hudson gave me a rather cheeky embroidery kit. Someone, I’m supposing it was Mycroft Holmes, but, of course, one can never be certain with Miss Cloak and Dagger, made a generous payment into my account at Well-Loved Books, so I’ve enough reading material in here,” she tapped the bag, “for a dozen holidays.”  
  
“Excellent. Though, you know, it’s you should be giving me a gift, seeing as how I’m the one saddled with a sulky, stroppy Sherlock in a London heatwave.”  
  
John grinned and set her holdall atop Lestrade’s desk. “Well, since there seems to be a Victorian motif, how about some medicinal brandy?” She produced a bottle from the unzipped bag and handed it to Lestrade.  
  
Lestrade studied the label, then puckered her lips and emitted a long wolf whistle. “Thank you very much, doctor!”  
  
“I’ve got to go, or I’ll miss my train. Take care of Sherlock, eh?”

* * *

John’s first emotion when she spied the old lady through the glass was not surprise but guilt. She should have mentioned the near hit-and-run to Lestrade, but she’d forgot.  
  
“Hello. We meet again.”  
  
“Oh, hello,” said the old lady in a subdued tone.  
  
John settled herself into a seat and pulled out a dog-eared novel.  
  
The journey was well underway when John looked up and noticed the lady was distressed and sweating.  
  
Odd. Old dears like her were normally so cold.  
  
“Would you like me to lower the window?” asked John.  
  
“Oh, yes, thank you.”  
  
“Are you all right?” asked John when she took her seat anew. “You had quite a shock earlier.”  
  
“Yes, yes, I am worried. Of course, about that, but not just about that. I went to Scotland Yard, you see, and they didn’t believe me.”  
  
John’s guilt grew. Damn, she should’ve mentioned the incident to Lestrade.  
  
“Listen, I am a witness,” said John. “That car…”  
  
“No, I didn’t go to Scotland Yard about the car. I went to Scotland Yard about the murders.”  
  
“What murders?”  
  
“The ones in my village. Oh, I daresay you don’t believe me, either. Even I thought I was imagining things in the beginning. I didn’t think anything of the first, but then there was the second and the third, and now, there’s to be a fourth…”  
  
Was the old dear potty?  
  
“Oh, what’s the use?” the old lady sighed. “I’ll probably be murdered, too, some freak accident like…”  
  
“A careless London driver?” suggested John.  
  
Their eyes met, and John felt a curious sensation travel down her spine.  
  
“What’s your name?” asked John, in a tone she recognised as Sherlock’s.  
  
“Lavinia Pinkerton.”  
  
Pinkerton. Of course. It was a sign. And John didn’t believe in signs.  
  
“Four murders in your village of…?” prompted John.  
  
“Wychwood-under-Ashe. There’s been three but there’s going to be…”  
  
John nodded and pulled out her mobile. “How’d you feel about a pair of long-lost nieces showing up for a visit, Mrs.—”  
  
“Miss—”  
  
Of course. Another sign that John didn't believe in.  
  
“—Miss Pinkerton?”  
  
“Oh, my goodness. Do you mean…?”  
  
“I mean that my flatmate is a private detective, a very good one. If there’s anything at the bottom of your suspicions, she’ll figure it out, but we’ll need a reason to be in Wychwood-under-Ashe. It sounds like the kind of place where strangers would stand out. I’m, uh, supposed to be on a rest cure, would that work?”  
  
“Well, there’s absolutely nothing to do in Wychwood-under-Ashe.”  
  
“Perfect.”  
  
“Oh, what a relief, but there is Wonky Pooh.”  
  
“Wonky Pooh?”  
  
“My cat, a beautiful Persian. He went missing but was just found,” she said, adding absent-mindedly, “He’s got a painful ear, too.”  
  
“Oh, that’s okay,” lied John. “My flatmate loves cats.”

* * *

**Can I interest you in a village serial killer? JW  
**   
Where? SH  
  
Wychwood-under-Ashe. JW  
  
Details? SH  
  
Just an old lady’s suspicions. But she was almost killed in a hit-and-run going to Scotland Yard today. I met her there and again on the train. Doesn’t seem dotty. Worth a look? JW  
  
REST CURE? SH  
  
They say a change’s as good as a rest. Well? JW  
  
Packing a bag. Getting a bike. SH  
  
A bicycle? JW  
  
Sherlock? JW  
  
Sherlock? JW  
  
A motorcycle. SH  
  
John stared at the screen.  
  
Christ, did Sherlock know how much John liked—?  
  
**I know. On my way. SH**


	10. Newspaper, coffee, orange (BBC Sherlock. "A Study in Pink" AU. Rating: Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Newspaper, coffee, orange  
> Rating: Gen  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Length: 830  
> Content Notes: Very draft and slightly ridiculous, crackish, "A Study in Pink" AU, Alt First Meeting Sherlock & John. I know nothing about crossword puzzles, but today I learned the term Schrodinger's crossword puzzle and read about [the one](http://www.slate.com/articles/life/gaming/2016/09/ben_tausig_s_new_york_times_puzzle_is_one_of_history_s_most_important_crosswords.html) done by Ben Tausig with the theme of genderfluidity where a few of the squares could be M or F and still produce a correct puzzle (i.e., SAME SEX or SAFE SEX). 
> 
> Summary: On the bright side, John has a newspaper, a coffee, and an orange.
> 
> Author's Note: for 2018 July Writing Prompts #18: No good deed goes unpunished.

For the thousandth time, John told himself he should look on the bright side.  
  
He wasn’t a broke and broken, washed up, worn out war hero who couldn’t find a place to live.  
  
He was an ex-serviceperson with a newspaper, a coffee, and an orange.  
  
He sat looking at the three objects, set side-by-side-by-side on the desk.  
  
Three people completely unknown to him had done him three kindnesses in the span of a couple of hours that morning. One had given him a newspaper, unread, an honest-to-God ink-and-sheet affair with pages that turned and folded; one had bought him a coffee, a lovely milk-and-whipped something that he’d never be inspired to pronounce, much less ask for; and one kind soul had thrown him a bright sunny orange, which, miraculously, he’d caught with his bad hand.  
  
It was a good day.

* * *

  
By the afternoon, it was a dismal day.  
  
The news stories reminded him how cruel the world was. The advertisements reminded him how broke he was. The bits about films and festivals and celebrities whose names he didn’t recognise reminded him of all the fun he wasn’t having. An actor his mother had liked was dead.  
  
Such was life.  
  
But there was the crossword puzzle.  
  
He’d done about half of it. Even if he had the brains to finish it, he probably couldn’t. The orange had been juicy, a bit too juicy, and the spray had obscured some of the clues. The coffee had been good, great, actually, but John was still sleepy.  
  
He was laying on the bed, hanging over the edge, looking down at the newspaper.  
  
It was a modern still life: curls of orange rind. Hard paper cup. Pen. Half-done crossword.  
  
He wondered if it was a Schrodinger’s crossword because he could’ve sworn that one might have been ROOF or ROOM.  
  
He rolled back onto his back and closed his eyes.

* * *

  
John woke, panting, sweating, shivering.  
  
The light without was dying.  
  
He rolled onto his side and peering over the edge of the bed saw the crossword.  
  
It was complete.  
  
Across John read:  
  
CATCH ME BEFORE I KILL AGAIN  
  
No. Surely not. John was seeing things.  
  
Down it read:  
  
ROLAND KERR FURTHER EDUCATION COLLEGE  
  
MIDNIGHT  
  
John blinked. He shook his head. He squinted.  
  
No. His mind was just playing tricks. The crossword was just as he’d left it: half-finished and splattered with orange spray and now a tiny rivulet of brown where the paper cup had tipped over.

* * *

John was mad. No, he was bored.  
  
Extraordinarily bored to investigate a suspicious crossword puzzle that his cracked mind had dreamed up.  
  
This would get him locked up in a looney bin for good.  
  
He’d been hiding for half an hour.  
  
He saw two men meet and go up the steps of the college.  
  
He followed them. The place was empty, and the hollow corridors made it easy to listen to their bizarre conversation, like something out of a novel, the latest thriller John hadn’t read.  
  
But John had read the paper.  
  
Four suicides.  
  
Christ, this was the bloke who’d done it. And this was how he’d done it. And there was a detective—did those exist outside of fiction?—with a sexy voice who was risking his life to prove he was clever.  
  
John listened.  
  
Fuck, the murderer didn’t have a real gun!  
  
Well, John did. He reached into the back of his jeans.  
  
It was just then that John realised he’d left his cane in the cab.  
  
And he didn’t need it. He didn’t need it? John didn’t have time to think about that.  
  
He burst into the room.  
  
“STOP!”  
  
And damn, if the two blighters didn’t swallow the pills before they put their hands up.  
  
“He’s the killer,” said Sexy Voice quickly, pointing at the white-haired man in the cardigan.  
  
“Why the fuck did you take that pill?” cried John.  
  
Just then, the white-haired man began to sputter, then froth at the mouth. He collapsed.  
  
John made to lower his gun.  
  
“Don’t,” ordered Sexy Voice, who John realised could also be known by the moniker Cut-Glass Cheekbones. “He might be shamming.” Then he leaned over the man. “You’re dying but there’s still time to hurt you. Give me a name, the name of your sponsor, my fan.”  
  
“NO!”  
  
John approached with his gun still trained on the collapsed figure and a head of black curls that might have been in the dictionary under ‘tousled.’  
  
“THE NAME!” cried Nice Coat.  
  
“MORIARTY!”  
  
The old man’s eyes closed. His body convulsed, then relaxed.  
  
Lovely Locks looked up. “What brought you here, soldier?”  
  
John blinked, then stammered,  
  
“Newspaper, coffee, orange.”  
  
John watched grey eyes gleam quicksilver.  
  
“Wonderful. A riddle. The police will be here soon. Best if you and your weapon get out of here. At the end of Baker Street, there’s a good Chinese stays open ‘til two. Meet me there in two hours.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“Dim sum. Answers to questions. Solutions to puzzles.”  
  
John grinned.


	11. Minor Domestic Opera. (ACD. Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Minor Domestic Opera  
> Universe: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 221b  
> Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, the fire brigade  
> Summary: Holmes wakes to voices.  
> Author's Note: for the 2018 July Writing Prompts #12: The Dream of Gerontius. For Small Hobbit.

I woke to the self-imposed darkness of closed eyelids.  
  
But for the pain, I would’ve thought I’d dropped off at the opera.  
  
I heard a baritone, an orchestra’s stampede, and a sharp tenor making itself known amongst a chorus that rose, then fell.  
  
I breathed in acrid smoke, pondering the possibility that I had died and was at the gates of Hell.  
  
The baritone belonged to my Guardian Angel; he pled my case with no little vim.  
  
Lucifer’s soprano was firm, unmoved.  
  
Purgatory, then? Perhaps, for I was being lifted, then lowered onto something soft.  
  
My eyes fluttered open.  
  
Watson.  
  
All was not lost if there was Watson, but the scene behind him was, indeed, bleak.  
  
“Opera?” I muttered.  
  
He smiled. “Just a minor domestic one.”  
  
“Hell?”  
  
“No,” his mouth twitched, “well, only the devil we know.”  
  
“Doctor!” Mrs. Hudson’s familiar voice shrieked behind my Angel’s hunched form.  
  
“Purgatory?” I sighed.  
  
“Uh, yes,” said Watson slowly. He looked over his shoulder. “That’s a good way to put it, for there will be penance in the form a much higher rent next month and a landlady’s goodwill to re-win. You set Mrs. Hudson’s curtains afire again, Holmes. The fire brigade’s come and gone. You suffered a small injury. Mrs. Hudson hit you on the back of the head with a water bucket.”


	12. You've Forgotten Something (BBC Sherlock. Gen. Fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: You've Forgotten Something  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 350  
> Content Notes: a bit of domestic aw!  
> Summary: "You've forgotten something," said Sherlock.  
> Author's Notes: for 2018 July Writing Prompts #22. Any of the BBC Sherlock old-timers remember this fic? I read it a long time ago and can't remember the title or anything (heh, heh, meta!). Anyway, it's a poor man's version of that one, whatever it was.

  
John checked his watch.  
  
“Christ, I’m late.”  
  
He crammed the whole quarter of buttered toast in his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of tea. Then he regretfully, but hastily, poured the rest of amber liquid down the drain.  
  
“Keys, keys, keys?” he muttered and gave a glance he knew to be futile at the hooks, which were supposed to hold keys, but rarely did. Right now, for example, there were three dried trout hanging from them.  
  
“The trout, Sherlock?”  
  
“Case’s still pending,” said Sherlock without looking up from the eyepiece of the microscope.  
  
“Keys?!” cried John impatiently as he searched around a hunched Sherlock and under the papers and other debris on the kitchen table.  
  
“Jacket,” said Sherlock.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” said John, then he patted his pockets quickly. “Uh, let’s see…”  
  
“Wallet?” asked Sherlock.  
  
“Uh, yeah, uh…”  
  
“Bread bin.”  
  
“Why is my wallet in the bread bin, Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock hummed as if it were a philosophical question requiring lengthy consideration or one asked in a one of the few languages he didn’t understand and therefore requiring interpretation.  
  
“Never mind,” grumbled John as he grabbed his jacket and gave a small whoop at the tell-tale ‘clink’ that keys in a pocket made. “Got to go, late, late, keys, wallet, jacket, uh, is it going to rain? Nah…”  
  
“You forgot something,” said Sherlock, straightening up and turning his head toward John.  
  
John frowned, then said absent-mindedly, “Uh, have a good day, don’t burn the flat down,” he pressed a quick peck to Sherlock’s lips, “’bye.”  
  
And with that, he flew down the stairs.  
  
It wasn’t until John reached the pavement that he realised what he’d done.  
  
And what he’d forgotten.  
  
His gut clenched as he climbed the stairs.  
  
Christ, flatmates didn’t kiss each other good-bye when they went to work, did they?  
  
Consternation vanished when John reached the top of the stairs.  
  
“Your Oyster card,” said Sherlock.  
  
“Thanks,” said John, returning the grin. He took the card and turned toward the stairs and was still grinning when he heard Sherlock call after him,  
  
“Dinner’s at seven. Don’t be late, _dear_.”


	13. Werewolves. (BBC Sherlock AU. Werewolf John & Vampire Sherlock. Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Werewolves (Part of the [When it's dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12235188/chapters/27797586) 'verse)  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 1800  
> Content Notes: ASiP AU, Vampire!Sherlock, Werewolf!John, Sherlock & John have an open relationship in the original fic but there's no mention of that in this ficlet.  
> Summary: _“I never believed in werewolves—not even when I became one.”_  
>  Author's Note: For 2018 Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts #23. Werewolves. Watson knows that werewolves do not exist. Something forces a re-evaluation of that stance.

Sherlock nodded to a building over the road.

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it.”

“He isn’t just going to ring the doorbell, though, is he?” said John. “He’d need to be mad.”

“Vampires require an invitation, but there’s nothing in our code that says we can’t knock.”

“Sherlock!”

A portly apron-clad vampire lumbered towards the table.

John tensed. “He’s going to kick me out,” he said under his breath.

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock.

“This is a vampire restaurant in a vampire district, Sherlock! Passing through is one thing, but I bet I’m the first werewolf to come to table in this place. Every eye in here, evil, third, and otherwise, is on me.”

“And you’re handling it remarkably well. Much better than I would in a lupin dive, but don’t worry, Angelo’s loyal enough to me to be open-minded about you.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked up.

“Hello, Angelo. This is John.”

Angelo offered his hand.

John shook it, and he could not stifle an amused smile nor a stomach rumble at the heady aroma of spices and meats that hung about the proprietor.

“Welcome!” The hearty smile turned out to be genuine. “I’m so happy. For two hundred years, I serve only the bruschetta, the antipastos, a bit of this, a bit of that, the toast, the dribble of oil, bleh! And of course, the vino and the vino and the vino, always the vino!” he gave an exasperated grimace; the corners of his mouth curled down, “but today,” his face lit with sudden joy, “I make what I used to make before the Roman blood-sucker got me: the Bolognese! With the meat and the meat and the meat, yes?”

“Sounds great to me,” said John, his smile widening.

“Perfect! Oh, Signor John, you are an answer to a prayer.”

Angelo gave a hard thump to Sherlock’s back. “This one, I like,” he said.

“In that case, maybe one of your well-polished silver candlesticks, Angelo?” Sherlock suggested.

“But of course! More romantic!”

When Angelo was out of earshot, Sherlock added, “And the better for you to have eyes in the back of your head.”

* * *

John had consumed half the mountain of spaghetti placed before him when he broached the subject.

“Do you think this idea of Stamford’s will work?”

“A werewolf and a vampire successfully sharing rooms? No. Highly improbable, absolutely unprecedented.”

John nodded. “Well, that vampire that kidnapped me today seemed to agree with you.”

Sherlock huffed. “Highly improbable, John, but not impossible. And I’m willing to try. I was a scientist by nature before, I am one still. Even if the experiment fails, there’s something to be learned.”

“If we don’t kill each other,” said John grimly.

“I’m already dead, and you were witness to my ground-breaking discovery yesterday, the results of which mean that my days of requiring human blood of any sort to survive may well be over.”

“You discovered a reagent which will transform ordinary coconut water into a facsimile of the hemoglobin-rich elixir upon which your kind thrive.”

Sherlock nodded excitedly. “First that, then this case. It’s been an extraordinary week. By the way, you were very helpful, John, earlier, at Lauriston Gardens, with the body.”

“You were bloody fantastic!” said John between mouthfuls.

Sherlock gave a quick tilt of the head at the compliment and offered John a napkin.

“You can’t possibly know everything about lupin culture, Sherlock. Even I don’t,” said John as he wiped red sauce from his mouth. “Though I’ve only been one for about nine months. But, uh, I’m willing to try it, I mean, the sharing rooms, if you are. You’re interesting. But there will be objections, some more serious than just foul looks at a restaurant. For example, that vampire who kidnapped me was quite vehement is his disapproval.”

“Don’t worry about him.”

“He’s not your mate, is he? Or prospective mate?”

Sherlock snorted. “Mates are not my area, John. Vampires occasionally form alliances as what might best be called ‘hunting partners.’ And they have thralls. Thralls are boring. I’d rather talk to an inert skull than a human mesmerised into abject submission. And unless I’m much mistaken my hunting days, as I mentioned, are thankfully coming to an end. But, uh, well, you should know I consider myself mated to my Work, the rest of me is just transport.”

“Of the hearse variety,” quipped John, with a giggle.

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “A pawky sense of humour may aide matters.”

“Right. Okay. You’re unattached. Like me. Well, except during a full moon which I spend at Lupin Park. I want to buy a caravan, but funds…”

“This is not a remunerative case, John, but that’s not to say in the future, there mayn’t be one.”

John shrugged. “I might look for locum work at some of the lupin clinics, that is, of course, if I can get my hand to settle down. It doesn’t inspire confidence in patients. The leg slows me down, too, of course, but in a surgery setting that won’t matter much; there’s a lot of sitting. This is really good.” John shoveled the last of the pasta into his mouth. “Certain you don’t want some?”

Sherlock shook his head and fiddled with a still-full glass of red wine.

“If we were in a lupin place, I would lick the plate,” whispered John with a conspiratorial wink.

“Do it,” urged Sherlock in much the manner of a schoolyard dare.

“And offend every nightwalker in here?” protested John.

“All but one, no, make that two, Angelo’d love it.”

“All right. You’re willing to fend off the offended?”

“Naturally.”

John held up the plate and slurped.

But the gasps and grumbles that erupted about the restaurant were drowned in a munificent roar.

“Oh, Signor John!” bellowed Angelo, “You’ve made this poor Florentine weep. Any hour, signor, my cucina is at your service. Sherlock, this one, this one—”

“I know, I know—John! Look across the street. Taxi. Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out.”

* * *

“Did you get the powder burns out of your fingers?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“What?”

“You don’t strike me as the kind to repeat himself and that’s the second time you’ve asked.”

“I don’t think even Lestrade would suspect a werewolf of having shot a silver bullet, but if he got a good sniff…”

“That’s why I stayed downwind of him and Donovan until we left the crime scene.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I mean for—”

“I know. He wasn’t a very good cabbie vampire, was he?”

“He was an awful cabbie, true. but he wasn’t a vampire at all.”

“What?!”

“He was a thrall pretending to be a vampire. Pretending very well, actually.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But I know for whom.”

“This Moriarty?”

“Yes, but I’d rather not say more until I’m certain,” said Sherlock.

John frowned, then shrugged and tucked into his food.

“This dim sum’s great, lo mein, too, but, uh, when you said Chinese…”

John looked about the dark room.

“The food _is_ Chinese, John.”

“True, and unlike Angelo’s, a werewolf and a vampire sharing a table doesn’t raise an eyebrow—or drop a fang.”

“Shape-shifting ghouls can’t cast stones, John.”

“No, but they can do a mean spring roll. Mind if I, uh, wolf the rest down?’

“Please. My treat. It’s the least, well, you know.”

They settled into companionable silence. John ate, and Sherlock toyed with a bottle of beer.

In a short time, the space between Sherlock and John held a stack of plates licked clean and as well as three empty bottles.

John pushed back and sighed. “I may not be able to read faces as well as you can, Sherlock, but I know that look. You want to know how I became a werewolf.”

“Only if you want to tell it.”

John took a deep breath and began,

“I never believed in werewolves—not even when I became one.”

“I was an Army surgeon assigned to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. By the time I reached Bombay, however, I learned my corps had already advanced into Afghanistan. I caught up with them at Kandahar and had no sooner entered upon my duties then I was removed and re-assigned to the Berkshires. So you see, I was new and so very green. There had been no time to hear rumours of the supernatural horrors perpetrated by the Ghazis, much less believe them. Then came Maiwand. Much later, I learned the full truth of what had happened from my orderly, Murray. Some of us were shot and left for dead. The rest of us were bitten and carried off. I suffered both misfortunes. The one who bit me was shot by a stray bullet from his own side. The one who shot him shot me as well and left me for dead. My orderly, Murray, the only other survivor, slung me ‘cross the back of a pack-horse and brought me to safety.”

“I was taken to Peshawar to an army hospital. At first, I rallied, then I contracted a severe case of typhoid. I spent my first two full moons in a state of feverish delusion, and it wasn’t until I returned to England and was facing my third full moon that Murray told me what had happened. He’d been changed, too, but I don’t think I even believed it then, not until he brought me to Lupin Park and I saw for myself what become of him and me and hundreds of others. And it was there I met Stamford.”

“He didn’t fool anyone with his fur suit, but his scent was oddly benign for a human. No one seemed to give him more than a sniff. He was, of course, collecting data.”

“Yes, he does have a funny way of popping up in unexpected places and not getting eaten,” said Sherlock wryly.

“He was my tutor and not just in lupin culture but,” John sighed, “everything. It’s like I was sleepwalking. When I was human, I had no idea that creatures like me or you or our waiter even existed.”

“Humans are blind. I suppose I was, too, at some point, but it’s not something I like to dwell upon…”

“No, sufficient to the day, etcetera.”

“Precisely. Will you forgive me if I do not return the favour tonight?  That is, tell you my story. If my suspicions are correct, it will come out soon enough”

“Of course. Quite all right. Another time,” said John quickly.

“Now, speaking of another time, tomorrow is now today. So, the rooms?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Bring your things ‘round. You needn’t wait until dusk. Mrs. Hudson can attend to you. She’s a bit of an ogre, but…”

“Really? She struck me as a lovely lady.”

“Oh, yes, I mean, an actual ogre, well, on her mother’s side.”

“Oh.”

“I think…” Sherlock hesitated. "I think...you and I...may...well..."

“Yes,” said John. “Me, too. As you say, it’s a trial. And if nothing else, I’ll eat well. You know the choicest spots.”

Sherlock’s grey eyes flashed a proud quicksilver.


	14. Snap-Crackle-Boom (BBC Sherlock fireworks stand AU. Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Snap-crackle-boom (part of the Waffle House AU [Scattered, Smothered, and Covered](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4723286/chapters/10792151))  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock AU  
> Length: 1050  
> Rating: Teen (for foul language)  
> Content Notes: Fireworks Stand AU, in the spirit of that old advice 'write was you _used to_ know.'  
>  Summary: Honest Jon's fireworks stand gets some competition from Dishonest Don's fireworks stand.  
> Author's Note: for 2018 July Writing Prompts #24: Tales of the City. Let the history or geography of a place  
> play a significant role in today’s work. Bonus point if the place is not Holmes and Watson’s home city. There's a tumblr prompt (which I can't find) about this.

  
“You talk kinda funny,” said Slim.  
  
“Got hit with an oar in the mouth with I was a kid,” said John, in a low, sullen voice.  
  
“S’that right? Huh.” He spit into tobacco juice into the dust. “Well, that’ll do it. Know anything 'bout these?” He waved a four-fingered hand at the shelves inside the trailer.   
  
“They go snap-crackle-boom,” mumbled John with disinterest.  
  
“Heh, heh, that’s about right. You ain’t from around here, now, is ya?”   
  
“Nah, I’m from…” John shrugged in a direction that was, technically, east, and therefore towards the Atlantic Ocean and the British Isles beyond.  
  
“What brings ya here?”  
  
“What brings anybody anywhere?” retorted John with a tired grimace.  
  
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Slim, nodding slowly at the cars passing on the highway. “What’s your name?”  
  
“John.”  
  
Slim chuckled. “Well, I’ll be.” He glanced overhead at the neon sign which read ‘HONEST JON’S FIREWORKS STAND OPEN 24 HRS’ then spit again. “Well, you got yourself a job, podjo. I handle the inventory, you handle the store, especially the lookie-loos from the highway. Only rule is no smoking.” He reached forward and plucked the battered pack of Marlboros from the front pocket of John’s shirt.  
  
“Deal,” said John and shook the four-fingered hand.

* * *

It took three days.  
  
A pair of beat-up mini-vans pulled off the highway.   
  
“Uh, Slim, we’re outta the packs of colored smoke bombs and the 24-inch sparklers.”  
  
“Aw, shit, kiddies. Here,” said Slim, tossing John the keys, “I gotta take a piss.”   
  
“Hey, Slim, I gotta hankering to shoot one of the big ones off before I head home tonight.”  
  
“Yeah, all right. Uh, there’s a beat-up Rattlesnake Mambo that ain’t nobody gonna buy.”  
  
“How ‘bout this here Boston Tea Party?”   
  
“Shit, why not?”

* * *

It took a day.   
  
“Son of a bitch,” muttered Slim.   
  
John saw him through the open door of the trailer.   
  
He was rooted to the ground, his eyes fixed on something up the highway. His mouth dropped open and a trickle of brown juice spilled onto his faded T-shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.  
  
John stepped out of the trailer and followed Slim’s gaze to a crane that was raising a billboard about a quarter of a mile in the distance. The sign read:  
  
DISHONEST DON’S FIREWORKS – CHEAPEST IN TOWN  
  
Slim spit, then he started walking.   
  
“Mind the store, John.”  
  
“Yup,” said John.  
  
Later, Slim was beet-red and spitting mad. “He’s a weasely hippie-looking motherfucker who got hit with the same oar you did.” He waved his hands. “Selling stuff cheaper. All kinds of freebies.”  
  
“Bad for business,” admitted John, with a resigned shrug.  
  
“How’d he get a permit? If he’s even got one! This place don’t need two fireworks stands! Nah, something squirrely about ‘im. He’s up to somethin’, that’s for sure. And Ol’ Slimmie’s gonna figure it out. You mind the store, John.”  
  
“Yup,” said John.

* * *

“Hee, hee, hee, hee!” cackled Slim. “Looky here, John.”   
  
John looked at the pile of torn paper and gunpowder and fuse.  
  
“He’s doctorin’ ‘em!”   
  
“For what?”  
  
“Dunno. Maybe you can get high off these motherfuckers.” He hunched over the table and snorted.  
  
“Shit, Slim!” protested John.  
  
“Hee, hee! Nah, just messin’ witcha. He’s definitely givin’ them more bang for their buck, for some reason.”  
  
“Whatever the reason, he’s winnin’. We only had that one stop by all day, and that was your buddy who wanted to use the shitter. The rest went to him.”   
  
“Yeah,” said Slim, thoughtfully, “I think we need to put Dishonest Don outta business, podjo. You with me?”  
  
“Yeah, but how?”  
  
“There’s accidents happenin’ all the time, John. It’s a mighty dangerous business we in. Tonight.”  
  
“Can I shoot off that ‘Rule Britannia’ before we do whatever we gonna do?”  
  
“Sure. It’s been gatherin’ dust since God was a boy.”

* * *

“All right, John, here we go,” whispered Slim. “On the count of three. One, two…”  
  
“Wait, Slim. Look.”  
  
John pointed back from where they’d come.  
  
Two police cars came barreling down the highway with sirens blazing and screeched to a halt before the trailer. They were quickly followed by a large van out of which poured an army of dark-uniformed figures who were shouting.   
  
“SHIT!” yelled Slim. “’Bye, John. Nice knowing ya!”  
  
John stared as Slim took off running straight across the highway and disappeared into a thicket.  
  
John moved slowly, step by step, toward the shuttered trailer ahead of him. Out of the darkness came a voice.  
  
“Well done, John.”  
  
“Thanks. You were right: he was selling stolen military munitions out of the back.” John looked behind him. “By the way, you look horrible with that pony tail and, what do they call it?”  
  
“Soul patch.”  
  
“Ugh. Sherlock, I want to get out of here. Out of this whole bloody country.”   
  
“Our flight leaves at 9:25 from BWI.”   
  
“Really?!”  
  
Sherlock’s grin shined in the darkness. “Mrs. Hudson won her lawsuit. She sold the Waffle House and re-claimed her assets. We’re all going home—tonight.”  
  
“Well, as Slim would say, Halle-fucking-lujah. But 9:25? We’ll never get there in time.”  
  
Sherlock nodded toward a clump of bushes where John could just make out the chrome of a motorcycle.   
  
John gave a long wolf whistle. “Nice. Well, I guess there’s just one last thing.”  
  
“Would you like to do the honors?” asked Sherlock.   
  
John nodded.   
  
Sherlock produced a battered pack of Marlboros and tilted it towards John. John took a cigarette and held it between two fingers while Sherlock lit it with a pewter lighter engraved with skull and crossbones.   
  
John took a puff, then handed the cigarette to Sherlock, who also took a puff and handed it back.   
  
Sherlock started the bike while John flicked the cigarette through the open door of the trailer. Then he hopped on the back of the bike. He looked over his shoulder as the first explosion lit the sky.   
  
“Nice to go out with a bang,” he screamed into the wind. Then he buried his face in black leather and let the party portion of Sherlock’s ‘business in the front, party in the back’ flutter around him.  


	15. Too many dicks. (BBC Sherlock. Rating: Teen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Too Many Dicks at the Yard Sours the DI  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Teen (for language)  
> Length: 880  
> Content Notes/Warnings: Established Johnlock, established Mystrade, drunkenness, facetious mention of suicide.  
> Detectives mentioned: Aurelio Zen, Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg, Çetin İkmen, Erlendur Sveinsson, and Kurt Wallander.  
> Summary: Lestrade's had a long week.  
> Author's Note: for the 2018 July Writing Prompts #25. Who Let That Fat Belgian Bastard In Here? Have Holmes  
> and/or Watson run into another detective we might know from another book/series/film.

“You look awful,” said John.  
  
“It’s been a week,” moaned Lestrade. He motioned for John to take a seat.   
  
“So I gather. I thought you said we’d meet at the pub.”  
  
"No need," said Lestrade. He swiveled in his chair and gestured to the five bottles that were resting shoulder-to-shoulder on the low shelf behind him.  
  
John gave a long whistle. “What’s all that?”  
  
“It’s been bloody United Nations week at Scotland Yard!” exclaimed Lestrade. He jerked open a drawer and set a pair of glasses and a bottle of water on the desk. “I've had to work with five different detectives on five different cases and every single one comes bearing gifts.” He swiveled ‘round and back again. “On Monday, I played host to Police Commissioner Aurelio Zen. Italian.”   
  
“Ah,” said John. “Well, that explains the grappa.”  
  
Lestrade poured them both a drink, then another, then himself a third.  
  
“Well, I know about Tuesday,” said John, feeling quite chummy.  
  
“Yes, Commissaire Adamsberg of the Paris police. He brought this.”   
  
Lestrade produced another bottle for John's inspection.  
  
“French wine? White? Looks very nice. I think you should keep it for an occasion more special than this one.”  
  
Lestrade shrugged and set the wine bottle aside on the desk, then he poured them each another grappa.   
  
“Sherlock quite liked pal-ing around town with Adamsberg’s deputy, Commandant Danglard. They had a kind of competition about who knew the more obscure facts.”  
  
“Yes, sorry I had to push you and them off on Hopkins, but Wednesday morning, who should appear but Inspector Erlendur.”  
  
“From?”  
  
“Reykjavik.”  
  
“Really?”   
  
“Oh, yes. He brought me this. Fjallagrasa Moss Schnapps. Take a whiff.”   
  
Lestrade retrieved another bottle. He unscrewed it, and John leaned in.  
  
“Jesus Christ!” John exclaimed. He grimaced and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “What is it? Whale spit?!”  
  
“Ocean moss soaked in an alcohol solution. Apparently good for cough.”   
  
John chuckled and accepted a fourth pour of grappa. “Like medicinal brandy. Or, you know, the ol’ Victorian adage: ‘got a cold? maybe you should do coke about it.’”  
  
“Yeah,” said Lestrade, helping himself to a fifth pour of grappa. “It’s another bottle to be reserved for a very special occasion. Like my deathbed.” He sighed. “Yesterday, it was Inspector Çetin İkmen from Istanbul.”  
  
Another swivel, this one slightly less graceful than the first two, and another bottle was presented to John.  
  
“Rakı,” said John, reading the label.  
  
Lestrade titled the bottle towards John. “Care to mix your grape with your aniseed?”  
  
John shrugged. “Anything’s better than whale spit, but, uh…”  
  
“Water first?”  
  
“Yeah, it’ll rinse the glass.”  
  
Lestrade grunted.   
They drank water in silence, but after one sip of the rakı, John coughed and shook his head. “Shit, Greg.”  
  
“Yeah,” agreed Lestrade, who drained his glass without a sputter. “And not ten minutes before you arrived, I bid good-bye to Inspector Kurt Wallander. He left this.” Lestrade waved behind him.  
  
“Brännvin?” asked John, squinting.  
  
“Yeah, he’s Swedish. Fancy a swig—?” He made to swivel.  
  
“Nah, nah, I think I’ve reached my limit. The room’s already spinning. So, uh, I mean, that’s a lot of spirit of cooperation, to be certain, but why the long face?”  
  
“I liked Zen a lot. Adamsberg was okay. And though İkmen was a great cop, he was gloomy bastard, and after a day with him, I started seeing the cup half empty, you know? Erlendur was even worse. I mean, the stories that man told, ugh. But a good cop, of course, in his own way. Just, you know, kind of a downer. And then today, Jesus Christ, if we hadn’t had a date set, I might have gone home and drown myself in the bath! That Wallander, fuck me!” Lestrade spun ‘round and back and, to John’s drunken amazement, poured himself three fingers of brännvin and gulped it down. “I mean, I’m just like them, you know, getting older, divorced, but not chain-smoking anymore, thank you very much, but I am living in a cardboard box of flat, drinking like a fish—you think I’m an alcoholic, John?”  
  
“I think you’re a legend,” slurred John as he boggled at Lestrade’s empty glass.   
  
Lestrade huffed. “Christ, how I am any different from all those bastards?”  
  
“Well, there’s—” began John.  
  
“Closing time!” called a voice from the door.  
  
“—him,” finished John, pointing, then he turned, “Hullo, Cheekbones and Brother of Cheekbones.”  
  
“Evening, Doctor Watson,” said Mycroft. “There’s a car waiting.”  
  
“Oh, thanks,” said John.  
  
“Not for you, Doctor,” said Mycroft in a matronly tone.  
  
“Cheers, luv,” said Lestrade. “I’m just putting a lid on things.” He fumbled with the bottle.   
  
“So I see,” said Mycroft. “Need a hand?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Lestrade, frowning at the bottles and glasses and lids.  
  
“Sherlock…” John stood and wobbled then sat hard back in the chair. “Uh, fuck…no, wait, I got it…”   
  
Sherlock swooped in and curled an arm ‘round John’s back. “Cab?”  
  
“Not much of detective, gorgeous. You don’t seriously think I’ll make it on the tube like this, do you?” said John. “Christ, the loo…”  
  
“We’ll make a stop before we head home,” said Sherlock evenly as he led John out the door. “Then hot bath?”  
  
“Christ, yes. Then a drunk fuck?” asked John.  
  
“We’ll see.”  
  
“Sherlock, will you let me—?”  
  
“Let’s go,” said Sherlock in preemptory fashion.  
  
“GREG!” shouted John. “YOU’RE BETTER THAN ALL THOSE PUT TOGETHER SODDING DICKS!”  
  
Lestrade chuckled. “Damn right I am,” he said and gave Mycroft a kiss.


	16. SING! (BBC Sherlock Post Reichenbach. Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: SING!  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 900  
> Content Notes/Warnings: Post Reichenbach AU (No Mary & no Rosie). Sherlock/John. Not exactly on prompt. Crack.  
> Summary: Two-time Fizzy Pimm’s karaoke champion John Watson forgets the words to “I’ll Survive” during his performance.  
> Author’s Notes: For 2018 July Writing Prompts #27. Treasure Island. A character has lost something they value.

_“John! John! John!”_

_“All right, everybody, settle down. Here he comes, Fizzy Pimm’s two-time defending Primrose Ball karaoke champion…John Watson!”_

As the music began to swell, John considered what had brought him to this spot, where he was off-stage, nervously waiting for his cue, wearing platform boots, gold lame chaps and waistcoat, sky-high wig, and not much else.

The first time he’d been drunk. He’d just stumbled onto the stage in his jumper and jeans and belted out the song. The words had seemed the perfect vehicle for his grief and anger and confusion about Sherlock’s resurrection, and he’d thrown everything he had into it. The applause had surprised him as did the club manager’s urging to get a costume and come back on Friday night.

John had.

The Friday performance had been just as impassioned, and it had made its way, as things will, onto the internet. The next day John got a message from Sargant Donovan wanting to help him with his wardrobe and moves.

And then he’d won the whole bloody contest.

The next year, when the contest rolled around, John was living once more at Baker Street and sometimes accompanying Sherlock on cases, but things between the two of them were still tense. Outside of cases, they seemed to walk on eggshells around each other, well, as much as Sherlock could whilst still doing things like setting the kitchen on fire.

John didn’t mention the contest, but that year an additional coach had volunteered his services and Lestrade, somewhat surprisingly, had an awful lot of knowledge of showmanship.

Though not the raw seething pain it had been, John could still tap into his anger and he brought all his old feelings to his performance and won again.

And now here he was for a third time. And things were good with Sherlock. Lots of cases. Jokes. A couple of close-calls where they’d had to trust each other as never before. There’d been a couple of heart-felt talks and one amazing and honest-to-God apology.

And since Christmas, there’d also been looks exchanged.

But nothing else.

But…

Before John had left the flat, Sherlock had been eyeing him with undisguised admiration and, and maybe this was John’s wishful thinking, lust.

“Good luck tonight, John.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

John hadn’t even entered the contest, but it was expected for the previous year’s winner to give a performance before the new winner was announced.

So here he was, back at Fizzy Pimm’s.

_“John! John! John!”_

John stepped out with his arms wide, and the crowd went wild.

_At first, I was afraid, I was petrified_

_Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side_

_But then I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong_

_And I grew strong_

_And I learned how to get along._

John spun ‘round and was about to shimmy when he realised he didn’t know what came next!

What?!

This had never happened before!

The music was playing. He was shimmying. His mouth was open, but nothing was coming out.

He looked frantically at toward the wings.

Lestrade was mouthing something.

_Uh, uh…._ _should have made you leave your key….uh, uh._

Christ, this was a disaster.

John was just about to turn around, apologise, and take a bow when there was a crack of thunder that shook the whole place. Then the music changed, and a voice growled,

_Humidity is rising…barometer's getting low…_

John looked about, confused.

_According to all sources…the street's the place to go…_

Suddenly, the crowd parted and from the back of the room a line of dark-hooded figures approached the stage.

_…'Cause tonight for the first time…._

One figure stopped before John and the others filed around it like ants up onto the stage. John, like the rest of the audience, stared.

_…Just about half-past ten…_

John stared and listened. And now that the shock had worn off, he recognised the voice.

_…for the first time in history…_

Oh, dear God.

_…it's gonna start raining men…_

WHOOSH!

The figures dropped their cloaks. And the crowd went wild.

It was Sherlock and a retinue of beefy, scantily clad men holding umbrellas.

And they were dancing, John quickly noted, dancing John’s dance.

He grinned at Sherlock, who grinned back, and threw him an umbrella.

And they danced and sang.

_It's raining men, hallelujah, it's raining men, amen_

_I'm gonna go out to run and let myself get_

_Absolutely soaking wet_

“Sherlock, who…?” asked John, swirling and shaking, but clearly indicating the troupe of Adonis surrounding them.

“Dance revue from Brisbane,” mouthed Sherlock. “Just arrived.”

John threw his head back and laughed.

_Tall, blonde, dark and lean_

_Rough and tough and strong and mean_

Towards the end, the song was drowned out in applause and whistles and cheers.

Sherlock and John were dancing, side-by-side.

“John?”

“Yeah, I think my Gloria Gaynor days are over, Sherlock.”

“Grateful to hear it. I quite like your costume, by the way.”

“Yours, too. Can I interest you in a private performance?”

“I thought you’d never ask. Meet you back at the flat?”

John nodded, and Sherlock was carried off by the passel of bearers as the music died.

_It's raining men, hallelujah_

_It's raining men, amen…_

_“And that’s why he’s the best! One last round of applause for JOHN WATSON and friends! And now to crown this year’s winner, John, if you’ll do the honours…”_


	17. Beer to Whiskey. (BBC Sherlock. Angst. Alcoholism.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Beer to Whiskey  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 221b  
> Content Notes: angst, depressed John (could be pre-canon, post-Reichenbach, or post-Mary death), alcoholism.  
> Summary: Beer to whiskey, the responsible part of John knows, is a red flag.

Beer to whiskey, the responsible part of John knows, is a red flag. Beer John drinks in pubs, and even without company of his own, he is still surrounded by others and maintains the sense that he is still if not part of, then at least amongst the living.   
  
Buying a bottle of whiskey for himself means drinking it himself, that is, alone, with no reminders of personhood. There is the danger of melting into the wallpaper or the furniture or the window pane.  
  
When he buys it, he can’t even look the clerk in the eye. Just a soft ‘ta’ and a swift fleeing the scene of the crime.  
  
He chooses whiskey, instead of beer, for the same reason that many of his fellow countrymen choose it, the nation being, of course, despair. Whiskey is quicker. It requires fewer sips to get to that first, wonderful muddled stage, when everything, everyone, including John himself, past and future, seem manageable. Not happiness or joy, but a glorious freedom from the burden of mistakes and flaws and misfortunes. Christ, John wishes he could stay there. But he doesn’t. No one does.  
  
Whiskey moves him quicker through the second stage, too, that wretched world of gloom and shadow, to the third: blissful oblivion.   
  
Christ, one day John hopes to go back to beer.      


	18. Predictable. (BBC Fem!Johnlock. Fluff. Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Predictable  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 1000  
> Content Notes: Genderbent fluff, established fem!Johnlock; references to Artists in Crime and (to a much lesser extent) Scales of Justice both by Ngaio Marsh.  
> Summary: John’s astonishment was so bloody comforting. Really, hang wooly socks and milky tea and nursery-room pudding. The only North Star in this godforsaken world was the look of surprise on that woman’s face, a face Sherlock loved so much she could barely keep from kissing it then and there.   
> Author's Note: for 2018 July Writing Prompts #30: **The Only Thing That Soothes.** Let today's work include a  
>  character's comfort food, comfort item, or comfort activity.

_“We called at Suva.”_  
  
Sherlock’s reward for her stealth was witnessing the electric-like tremour that coursed through John’s body. Upon receipt of reward, however, Sherlock immediately pressed her lips to the most tender spot on John’s neck as a kind of alms for having deliberately startled her.   
  
The kiss brought about a second, more faint tremour as well as the drop of an out-stretched arm and a gasp and a pivot.  
  
“How’d you know, Sherlock?!”  
  
John’s astonishment was so bloody comforting. Really, hang wooly socks and milky tea and nursery-room pudding. The only North Star in this godforsaken world was the look of surprise on that woman’s face, a face Sherlock loved so much she could barely keep from kissing it then and there.   
  
“The case,” said Sherlock. “It is your custom to find solace in detective fiction when detective reality is unpleasant.”   
  
“But how did you know which one? You know, if you’d been borne a hundred years ago…”  
  
Here it came.  
  
“…you’d have been burnt at the stake.”  
  
It wasn’t the words, which had been made positively banal by frequent repetition, but the tone, the blend of awe and reverence and adoration that made Sherlock smile and respond as she always did.   
  
“There’s still time, John. I may yet.”  
  
That smile. Like Sherlock hung the moon. And, by God, if the moon ever committed a crime, Sherlock would see it hang, just for a smile like that.  
  
“Simple. You were looking at that corner of the shelf, and of the possibilities, that’s the most romantic. Quite in character for you to seek out an antidote, if you will, to the events of earlier.”   
  
John grinned. “You’re fantastic, you know that?”  
  
“You said that about the trout scales.”  
  
“God, the trout scales! I almost died!”  
  
“Not this case,” quipped Sherlock, whose heart was thudding. She would have to kiss her soon.   
  
John looked at the bookshelf. “I felt bad for her.”   
  
“I know.”   
  
“If just one person had shown her some genuine kindness, Sherlock, if she’d had one friend to talk to…”  
  
“Not every lonely person becomes a murderer, John.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
And then she was in Sherlock’s arms, and it was the most natural, the most comforting thing in the world for Sherlock to wrap herself around John and listen to her spout silk-muffled nonsense.  
  
“If it weren’t for you, Sherlock…”  
  
“Even if we’d never met, John, I doubt you would’ve cleaved your husband’s skull with a golf club.”   
  
“You don’t know that. Sherlock, I’m so bloody thankful that our paths crossed and everything…”  
  
The clinging, the cloying, the declarations, it all ought to have nauseated Sherlock.   
  
But it didn’t.   
  
Sherlock held on to John. “I know,” she said, then she took a deep breath and frowned at the bizarre olfactory assault.   
  
One of Sherlock’s eyebrows rose as her eyes travelled to the mug that was balanced rather precariously on the edge of the bookshelf. She curled tighter around John, holding John’s head and shifting back and forth to see if she could spy, yes, there it was, the small, glossy shopping bag, carefully flattened on the top of John’s side of the desk.  
  
Oh, John.  
  
Sherlock was thoroughly charmed; nevertheless, she played her part.  
  
“Good Lord, John. Did you buy another horrid tea?”  
  
“Yes,” confessed John against Sherlock’s chest.   
  
“It smells awful.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Green tea flavoured with,” Sherlock grimaced, “pineapple and papaya and…”  
  
Sherlock and John spoke in unison.  
  
“…frangipani.”  
  
“Should I be worried?” asked Sherlock, without a single worry.  
  
John pulled away and looked up. “How on earth—?”  
  
Astonished! Again! How did John do it?   
  
Sherlock huffed. “You didn’t buy it because you thought you might actually like the taste of it. You didn’t buy it for the tin—sometimes, you do, you know, there was that godawful Christmas assortment—therefore, if it wasn’t the tea or the packaging, it must have been the packaging of the tea shop girl who saw you as a very easy mark.”  
  
John snorted.  
  
“Was she gorgeous?” asked Sherlock.  
  
“Of course not!” John blushed. “I mean, she was lovely. She was just, you know, interesting.”   
  
Of course, gorgeous wouldn't have done it. But interesting how?   
  
Sherlock waited.   
  
“Her hair was a kind of magenta with streaks of arsenic green and indigo,” said John. “Just like, you know, the opening scene…” She waved to the bookcase.  
  
“Of Fiji. In the novel,” said Sherlock.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You bought the tea this morning. You were thinking of re-reading that book before the case.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Always something!  
  
“You were smitten, with the tea shop girl?” asked Sherlock, just tiniest bit worried.  
  
“Until she called me ‘ma’am’ and said I reminded her of her grandmother!”   
  
John began to giggle. She buried her laughing face in Sherlock’s chest.  
  
“Oh, John.”  
  
“I know! Do you ever get tired of living with someone so predictable, Sherlock?” John was sniffling her way out of her giggling.  
  
“No.” And that was the truth. “You read the same detective stories over and over. Do you get tired of them?”  
  
John shook her head.   
  
“And do you get tired of buying obnoxious tea or being easy prey for interesting tea shop girls?”  
  
John smiled and shook her head.   
  
“And so I’ll never get tired of you, John,” said Sherlock earnestly.   
  
Their lips met. Then John pulled away and ran a hand down the lapel of Sherlock’s dressing gown, fingering the dark embroidery. “Will you read some of it aloud?” John looked over her shoulder and nodded toward the bookshelf. “And, you know…?”  
  
“Do the police in different voices?”  
  
John nodded eagerly. “You know, the stage lost a fine actor—”  
  
“Oh, stop,” muttered Sherlock in mock protest.   
  
“I’ll never get tired of it, Sherlock,” said John softly. “Of telling you how amazing you are.”   
  
“John…” Sherlock ought to say it, but it was a comfort she never had to, because John always said...  
  
“I know.”   
  
Sherlock drew John to her. She kissed John’s lips, her cheek, and that spot on her neck. “I’d prefer a private recital.”  
  
John made a confused noise.  
  
“Away from the scent of that revolting tea of yours,” explained Sherlock.  
  
“Lead on,” said John, grabbing the book and following Sherlock down the hall.


	19. de Nile (ACD. Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: de Nile  
> Universe: ACD  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 500  
> Content Notes/Warnings: Holmes/Watson; clichés; mention of snakes, hurt/comfort  
> Summary: Egypt has not been kind to Holmes.  
> Author's Note: for the Holmes Minor monthly prompt 'small moments of kindness' and for the Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts Amnesty #4: Around the World in 80 Days. Set your work in foreign parts.

“Ah!” sighed Holmes as he sank into the fragrant waters. “This is the only moment of happiness I’ve had the whole journey.”   
  
I settled myself on a low stool at the head of the tub and said, “Egypt has not been kind to us.”    
  
“To me, Watson,” Holmes amended as he cracked one eye and cast a sharp look in my direction. “You appear as dewy as a white lotus flower.”    
  
“Soldier, remember?”   
  
He grunted. “You shan’t include this case in your public chronicles.”   
  
“No,” I admitted. “It didn’t have many features of interest.”   
  
“Any!” cried Holmes as he leaned forward. “Be gentle.”   
  
“Of course,” I said as I began to lather his shoulders and back. “It’s dreadful, this rash.”   
  
“That blasted sand is everywhere! A menace far greater than the yellow fog!”    
  
“And then, the sunburns.”    
  
“Torture!”   
  
“And the food does not agree with you.”    
  
Holmes groaned. His head fell back into my hands, and I began to massage his scalp.   
  
“That camel who spit on you.”   
  
“Do not laugh, Watson.”   
  
“No, of course not. Horrid creature. It hadn’t heard of your international reputation.”   
  
Holmes snorted.    
  
I dipped a cup into the bathwater and began to rinse his hair.   
  
“And that monkey that frightened you on the boat and made you drop your pipe.”   
  
“My best pipe! And a crocodile ate it!” Holmes moaned. “And the cream coloured suit, how it has suffered!”   
  
I soaped his torso and arms, massaging as I went. “As soon as we return home, you’ll have a new suit made.”   
  
“I am a man of place and time, Watson, and the place is London.”   
  
“That’s not true, Holmes,” I said, dipping the sponge lower. “You’ve had great success outside of London.”   
  
“Give me a heath! Give me a moor! Give me the East End, the West End, any end of the Thames! This Nile, bleh! No, Watson, I’m too miserable to entertain your attentions.”   
  
“All right,” I said, shifting my stool to the side of tub. “Left leg, please.”   
  
Holmes sighed again. He leaned back against the head of the tub and closed his eyes. Then he raised a leg; as I ran my soapy hands along it, I spotted a quivering dark strip in the water.    
  
Moving slowly, I reached for the clever stick provided by the hotel attendant for just such an emergency.   
  
“Close your eyes, Holmes, keep them closed, think of a cosy fire at 221B, a dinner at Simpson’s…”    
  
SNAP!    
  
I stood and lifted the asp out of the water as it frantically tried to free itself from the grip at the tip of the stick.    
  
“I’m going to get the pumice stone, Holmes,” I said. “It’s in my portmanteau.”   
  
“If you must,” he breathed.    
  
I opened the window and tossed the snake into the night, then hurried back to Holmes’s side.   
  
“Well, we leave at dawn,” I said.   
  
“Hurrah!”   
  
“And maybe there will be another small moment of happiness.”   
  
“Like a clever murder on the train?”   
  
“If we’re lucky.” 


	20. The Fly in the Ointment (ACD. Kafka AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Fly in the Ointment  
> Universe: ACD  
> Length: 1200  
> Rating: Gen  
> Content Warnings: Angst; supernatural; Insect AU; Kafka/The Metamorphosis AU; In keeping with the original story, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft are not good guys in this; sad ending; attempted suicide  
> Summary: As Sherlock Holmes awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed into a gigantic fly and his bed transformed into a gigantic jar of ointment.   
> Summary: For the 2018 JWP Amnesty #7: both Insect AU and another author AU.   
> I hate to end on such a sad ficlet, but I tried to stay true to Kafka's original tone. Thanks to the mods for running a great show and to everyone who created such wonderful works.

As Sherlock Holmes awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed into a gigantic fly and his bed transformed into a gigantic jar of ointment.

He managed to raise his head and see his frail legs wiggling futilely in the golden mire. He had a black, segmented body and something on his back which, he could direct with the force of his mind, though these things, which must have been a pair of wings, were also hindered by the unguent.

What was it? A dream? A delusion?

His room, he raised his head again, was his room. There was the tin box. There were the pictures of celebrated criminals on the wall.

He might have gone back to sleep, but for the disconcerting sensation of being stuck in this position in the salve. He must free himself from it. He tried a hundred times to raise himself out of it, to no avail. He looked toward the hook where he hung his watch. That late? Why any minute—

Footfall on the stairs without. A door opened without.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Let me help you with that.”

“Good morning, Doctor. Do you know if Mister Holmes—?”

“He should be out presently. Inspector Lestrade’s expected this morning.”

There were the quotidian sounds of breakfast: ruffling newspapers, pouring tea, crunching toast.

Finally, there was a sniff and steps toward the door and a silent pause. “Holmes?” A respectful knock of two raps. “Are you breakfasting?”

“I find myself in some difficulty, Watson.”

His voice was not his own. It was a kind of buzzing whine.

“Are you all right, Holmes? You’re not doing some sort of experiment? Sounded like an apparatus or some kind.”

If only! How could he explain it?

He banished the question and threw himself into another struggle for freedom.

“Holmes, really, I say! Are you doing your baristu?”

“No.”

“All right.” Footfall away from the door and still more, sharper, heavier, on the stairs leading up from the street.

“Good morning, Doctor!”

“Good morning, Inspector!”

Mrs. Hudson’s respectful pardons. More offers of help with the tray. The aroma of coffee wafted into the bedroom and, surprisingly, did nothing to stir my appetite.

“Holmes will be out in a moment. Have a seat.”

Talk. Weather. Crime. Coffee. And then an awkward pause.

“I say,” said Watson. He approached the bedroom again. “Holmes! Inspector’s here, waiting. Are you ill?”

“Perhaps.”

Mrs. Hudson’s voice joined Watson’s. “Mister Holmes, I would greatly appreciate knowing if you will be wanting—"

“Holmes, may I enter?” Watson interrupted.

Any approximation of speech fled as the doorknob turned.

A gasp.

“Dear God!”

A scream. A thud.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

A shouted oath. A clamour of boots downstairs.

Doors slammed.

A grunt and a creak of a sofa sagging. The rush of boots upstairs and then back.

The door slowly opened, the tip of a revolver peeking in.

“Holmes, where are you?”

Watson stared. He looked about the tiny space. He took two careful steps and looks behind the jar.

He did all this with the gun aimed.

“Sometime between,” he said hoarsely, “midnight last and this morning, someone has taken Holmes and his bed put this creature and this,” he frowned, “tub in their places.” He rubbed his free hand over his face. He took a deep breath. “But how on earth—? Oh, god, I forgot about Mrs. Hudson!”

The door slammed again.

Smelling salts. Brandy. Then downstairs.

Watson returned alone.

A crack of the door. An eye.

My strength waned in the morass. I beat my wings once, and the door closed.

* * *

I woke to a voice.

Mycroft!

“I don’t know what to make of it,” said Watson. “If he departed of his own accord, he hasn’t left a message. If he’s be taken, how could this have been placed here without anyone hearing anything? And what is it? It is the largest fly I’ve ever seen! And what is this? Some kind of aspic. Where is the bed?”

I beat my wings frantically and turned my head to meet my brother’s wide-eyed gaze.

“Doctor Watson, you may doubt what I am to say.”

“Perhaps, but please say something.”

“I believe this _is_ Sherlock Holmes.”

“What?!”

I tried to nod but only managed a twitch.

“Do it again, Sherlock,” said Mycroft.

I beat my wings.

“Morse Code. M-Y-C-R-O-F-T-H-E-L-P.”

Watson’s jaw dropped. “Holmes?! Is that you?! Is a costume?!”

I buzzed angrily, then beat my wings.

“W-A-T-S-O-N,” read Mycroft. “I-F-O-N-L-Y.”

“We have to get him out of there!” cried Watson. “I’m going for some water and all the linen Mrs. Hudson can provide.”

He rushed out the room.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “You are a fly in the ointment. I wish you every luck.”

And with that, he left the room.

“Where are you going?” I heard Watson ask, but not the mumbled reply. “Mycroft! Mycroft!”

The door opened.

“I’m going to get you out of that muck.”

And so, he did.

The room had never held many furnishings. The bedside table and chair were retired to the lumber room and the jar of ointment, with no little effort on Watson’s part and a bit of ridiculous patting on my part, was pushed to the corner of the room. In the other corner was a mountain of stained linen. Watson was down to his vest, panting and sweating.

“How do you feel?” he croaked.

M-U-C-H-B-E-T-T-E-R-T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U

He smiled a weary smile. “I’m see I’m going to have to get better at Morse Code, but for the moment, I’m going to clean up and see about Mrs. Hudson.”

* * *

“It has been more than three weeks, Doctor Watson, and tomorrow is the first of the new month.”

“Mrs. Hudson, please. I will pay—”

“It is not a question of money. I keep a clean, hygienic household. I cannot abide vermin. Or their apologists.”

“Mrs. Hudson, please!”

“I’m sorry but you both must go!”

A door slammed.

I could bear no more. I buzzed ‘round the sheet which now covered the jar until the fabric slid to the floor. Then I hurled myself head first into the mire.

“Oh, no you don’t!”

Strong arms were yanking me out and wiping me clean. Then there were several heavy woolen layers being thrown over my eyes and wings and I was being guided out the door and, with much grunting, carried down the steps.

Watson dragged me through the yellow fog to a lonely side street, then the layers were gone.

“Listen, to me, you are not, nor have you ever been, a crack in the lens or a grit in the instrument. You are not a flaw, but the most curious thread in the tapestry of this life. And you will never perish. To me, you will always be the great Sherlock Holmes, and I will keep writing stories about us until my last days. I don’t know what form of science or sorcery made you thus. I don’t know if there is any purpose to it. But I do know, it’s time to say good-bye.”

He was right, of course.

T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U-M-Y-D-E-A-R-W-A-T-S-O-N

He smiled. “Thank you, my friend.”

As soon as he’d disappeared into the fog, I stretched my wings and lifted my body into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
